Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Then give it to me,’ I demand. ‘Fuck me hard.’

  ‘I thought I had to take care near your dress.’ I can see the corner of his cocky smile as he turns, giving the camera his profile. He looks like a picture in a magazine.

  ‘Screw the dress,’ I reply on the breath of a moan—a moan the result of the two fingers he’d curled deep inside. I don’t need to remember; my whole body is a reminder of how this man knew me, my inside clenching emptily as I watch the past me writhe. He knew me. This man knew every hitch in my breath. Knew my every sigh and tell. ‘I’ll change,’ I sigh out.

  ‘That’s not how this works.’ His reply is all husk and rasp. ‘I’m fucking you hard, but the dress stays. Now, afterwards. All afternoon. My fingerprints covering your skin and my cum inside you.’

  ‘But lunch—’

  He spreads my knees wide, one of his against the bed. ‘And if you’re a good girl, a sweet girl, when we get home, I’ll strip you. And we’ll do it all again.’

  ‘You’re—’

  ‘Fucking you now.’

  ‘God!’ Mine is less plea than hitched breath as Dylan hooks a finger under the crotch of my knickers, rubbing himself through my wetness, once, twice, before sliding into me in one smooth thrust. It’s a motion that pushes the air out of us both, our sighs simultaneous. We still for a minute, lost in the other, just marvelling in our fit. And as Dylan rotates his hips, grinding against me, the sigh this time is all mine.

  I whimper at the loss as he pulls back, tearing my knickers down my legs, demanding I spread.

  He moves back, and on camera, I’m suddenly exposed. Wet and bare. In profile, with one knee still planted against the mattress, Dylan’s dick bounces in anticipation, hard and glistening as he looks at me with such want and need, that even today, it creates a knot in my chest. And makes me weak at the knees.

  ‘Mio Dio . . . This. You. Will be the death of me,’ he growls.

  Leaning forward, he sinks into me—sinks into our kiss and my body. My hands are in his hair as he lifts my knee, his hips pistoning, spearing me again and again, while here, today, my insides today clench emptily, recalling the thick fill of him and the weight of his body against my skin. God, I’m close, both then and now, pleasure threatening to overload. My fingers slide harder, faster, as I focus on the screen—focus on the tension in his thigh and glutes as he drives into me. Again and again.

  Tension builds between my legs, the sheet a weight too much—I push it off, away from my damp hair and skin. My mind focuses on that bare inch of need, the place where heat and sensation gather until fit to burst. Pleasure expands, my fingers working faster and faster as the edges of the room begin to blur. The sounds coming from my laptop are no longer the focus; rather, they are the soundtrack to my current pleasure. Dylan’s curses and grunts drive me higher; need and nature overtake me bodily, lifting my hips from the bed.

  It’s such a cliché, but we climax together—the past and present me. We climax with his name on our lips.

  My heart pounds and my thighs are at their twitching-foal phase when I lean over and flip the screen closed. I can’t listen anymore. I can’t deal with the sound of my name coming from him. I lie back on my pillows, spent and suddenly cold, reassuring myself it’s an itch scratched. That it means nothing. That I haven’t come so hard since we were together the last time in LA.

  A thought crosses my mind, and I being to laugh. Nothing manic; I haven’t gone completely nuts. At least, not yet. It’s more an empty chuckle, one to deny the lump of emotion in my chest. A laugh, yeah. The irony. I’ve just realised I’ve joined the leagues of women all around the world, lying in bed and getting off to the movie star Dylan Duffy.

  Chapter 27

  Ivy

  ‘You’re aff ya fuckin’ heid!’

  Off his head drunk would be my guess.

  It’s not unusual to hear a couple of drunks brawling on the streets of Auchkeld on Saturday night—yes, we live in a village, but it’s a village with three pubs, two liquor stores, and, well, we are Scots, after all—but it’s a wee bit more odd to hear drunks going at it on a slow Wednesday afternoon.

  I don’t give a flying fuck what you want—you’re an arsehole. If you think you’re getting anywhere near her, you’re dreamin’, pal!

  ‘The language!’ June tsks as she ties a floral scarf over her newly set perm. ‘They’re starting early the day, no?’

  At the reception counter, I continue to study a minuscule slice of dark hair stuck under a layer of my thumbnail; one of the downsides to cutting hair is that the stuff gets everywhere. Yes, between layers of nail, between toes—in my bra! I don’t look up from my examination and don’t really answer more than a vague hum. I’m not ignoring June, just warding off the inevitable argument we have every time I do her hair—she wants to pay, and I’m not going to allow her.

  ‘Drunk at this hour,’ she mutters. ‘Plain scandalous.’

  ‘It is a bit early to be traipsing the streets blootered,’ I eventually agree, sensing her opening her shopping bag to search for her wallet. ‘Who is it this time?’

  As a diversion, it works; June turns to the large window behind.

  ‘I expect it’ll be old Tam and his pal. I hope they’re not hanging about,’ she says, pressing her cheek almost up to the glass as she strains to see the direction the shouting is coming from. ‘I’ve the messages to get before the shops close.’

  I smile. The messages are something my granny would send me for when I was wee; usually a loaf of bread and a newspaper. Though it’s a sort of one word fits all, encompassing anything from a trip to the corner store to pick up a pint of milk to a full shopping trip.

  ‘Sweet creeping Jesus!’ June jumps as Natasha appears behind her, resting both hands on her grandmother’s thin shoulders. ‘You’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.’

  ‘That’s the plan, oldie,’ Natasha replies. ‘Then the house is mine!’ June doesn’t deign to answer, pursing her lips instead. ‘Did I hear old Tam’s pished again? That friend of his is proper bogin,’ she says, wrinkling her nose as she stares down the street.

  ‘That’s no way to speak of your elders, even if he is wee bit smelly. And a drunk,’ June chastises as she fastens the top button of her coat. But Nat doesn’t appear to be listening as, outside, the yelling draws nearer.

  ‘Oh, look it’s—oh!’ Nat recoils from the glass as though slapped. ‘Missed him by a baw-hair!’ she exclaims.

  June tsks again louder this time. ‘And that’s an awful thing to say. Can you no’ call it what it is and say pubic hair?’

  ‘This from the granny who delights in saying cock.’ Nat frowns down at her gran. ‘Anyway, it’s not that old bugger fighting his own shadow this time. It’s someone much younger.’

  ‘Youngsters these days. Brawling in the streets. What would their mothers say?’

  ‘Maybe when Ivy’s ma calls next, she can ask. Can’nae imagine it’ll be as bad as catching him on her mother’s sofa with his boabie in his hand.’

  ‘What?’ I’m in the middle of hefting myself up onto the high stool behind the counter. Actually, I’m laying it on a little thick and pulling the poor me pregnancy card, hoping to distract the pair from the window when the meaning in Nat’s words snag.

  Boabie = dick.

  And dick + my mother’s sofa = my brother. I think.

  At least, it does after a mortifying incident a few months ago whereby Nat, Fin, and myself inadvertently stumbled in on Mac watching porn and masturbating in my childhood home.

  ‘Who? Who got caught with his boabie in his hand?’ June squints through the glass, like she’s worried she’s missing something, or rather some boabie, out there.

  My shoes thump against the wood floor as I slide down from the high stool.

  ‘It had better not be him,’ I gripe. Wasted words as I recognise his voice even if he is yelling like a common hooligan.

  The bells chime as I yank open the door, and sure enough, my br
other stands there out in the street. His arms are held wide as though waiting for a sign from the Almighty. Unfortunately, God isn’t present. Just a few fellow shop owners and the odd passing car. Oh, and the object of Fin’s desire and misery, Rory Tremaine.

  ‘What was that?’ Rory scoffs. ‘You hit like a girl.’

  ‘I will’nae miss next time. Last warning, just piss off, hame.’

  ‘This is my home now, fuckwit, but I’ll make you a deal. You tell me where Fin is, and I’ll move out of the fuckin’ place—out of your hair forever. That is if she tells me to, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t you fucking understand? She’s no’ here, and she doesn’t want tae’ see you!’

  ‘Aye, well, she can tell me that. To my face. Fuck it; I’ll even take the message by phone call I’m so desperate!’ Rory digs both hands into his hair as he looks around; his angry words meant for me as much as Mac. And not for the first time when seeing his pain, my heart twists. I know we’re doing this to protect Fin, but the way he looks—his desperation—is hard to see and not be affected.

  ‘You can take the message from us,’ Mac responds fiercely. ‘We’re her friends.’

  The fire drains from Rory’s gaze, his chest expanding deeply. ‘More like her fuckin’ keepers. What you don’t seem to understand—’

  ‘Don’t tell me I don’t understand!’ Mac bellows suddenly. ‘ ‘Cause I ‘ken plenty. I held that girl while she sobbed in my arms!’

  ‘Will I call the polis, hen?’ Mr. Poletti, the barber, asks as I step closer to the pair. ‘I’m no’ a young man these days, and I know how these things can turn.’

  I answer with a shake of my head. ‘No police needed, Mr. P. I’ll sort the pair of them.’

  ‘Where were you then, eh, while she was in bits? Keeping some other lassie’s bed warm?’ My brother yells.

  Rory drops his head, his chin almost to his chest. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you were dropped on your head as a child.’ His head snaps up again, and he steps into Mac, slowly raising his hand.

  ‘Come on then,’ Mac goads.

  ‘Beginning to wonder ‘cause it doesn’t seem to be computing in that thick heid!’

  As the pair square up like a couple of angry cockerels, I hurry closer I’m anxious for this not to come to blows when, with emphasis, Rory pokes my brother in the forehead, right between his brows.

  ‘Right, that’s it—’ Mac roars, right as I squeeze between the pair like a referee at a boxing match.

  ‘Yeah, that is it,’ I hiss. ‘Can you not hear yourselves, brawling in the street like a couple of Jerry Springer rejects? And you both, supposed businessmen.’

  ‘Nah, not Jerry,’ Nat interjects from somewhere off to the side. ‘They’ve both got their own teeth..’

  ‘What are you doin’?’ This time, Mac’s ire is directed at me. He stumbles back, his eyes flared, as he points both hands in the direction of my belly, completely ignoring Nat. ‘At least have a care for the bairn.’

  And then Rory’s stepping back, too.

  ‘Relax, it’s hardly catching,’ I scoff, as accusations bubble up in my throat; the things Fin told me about his old girlfriend falling pregnant. The reason for her heartbreak. Our motive for hiding her away. I purse my lips against them spilling. Against fanning the flames.

  ‘No, sure. Congratulations. Where’s Fin?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ I reply deadpan. ‘I’m pregnant, not daft, and I told you months ago, she’s moved on.’

  ‘I didn’t buy it then, and I’m not buyin’ it now. I’ll find her; you know that.’

  ‘Good luck, pal,’ Mac all but growls.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘And time is all she needs,’ I answer quietly. ‘Time to get over you.’

  ‘So she’s not,’ Rory replies, laughing bitterly. ‘That makes two of us, then. Just tell me—’

  ‘Don’t you talk to my sister,’ Mac starts again. ‘If you’ve got anything tae’ ask, say it tae’ me.’ He thumbs his chest hard, and I swear Rory almost rolls his eyes.

  ‘I thought we’d done this bit already,’ he answers. ‘For the love of God, just tell me where she is.’

  ‘Up his arse and five houses along,’ retorts Nat, tugging on my arm. ‘Come away now. Let the little boys have their fun.’ A look between Mac and Natasha speaks volumes I’ve no time to read. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she says to Rory over her shoulder. ‘If she was interested, she’d have sought you out.’

  Rory’s jaw flexes, his expression firming like granite.

  ‘It’s like I keep telling you; no one wants you around.’

  My brother folds his arms, Rory’s head turning towards him like a turret on a tank.

  ‘Why, you got plans on keeping her for yourself, big fella?’

  ‘Sure.’ Beneath his lip, Mac swipes his tongue over the top of his teeth.

  Rory tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over my brother, weighing his words. Taking him in. ‘Nah. You’re no’ Fin’s type.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Mac taunts, but Rory just laughs. ‘I’ll fuck you up,’ Mac growls.

  ‘You reckon? I’ll tell you what. Here.’ He turns his head, tapping the side of his chin in invitation. ‘Free shot. Make it count.’

  And like the hothead my brother is, he takes him up on the invitation.

  Thwack. Rory staggers but keeps his footing. And then he’s laughing. Maybe he has taken a leaf out of Tam’s book; maybe he is drunk?

  Fingers splayed on his thighs; he spits red snot onto the pavement. Without lifting his head, he glances up. ‘Solid shot.’ He straightens. ‘Your first and last. I get that you’re looking out for her, respect it even, but it is’nae gonna work.’ He turns to us, with a slight dip of his head. ‘Ladies,’ he says, suddenly swinging back to Mac. ‘I suppose I’ll see you same time next week.’

  ‘He’s off his rocker,’ Mac says as we watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders turned in.

  ‘Why? Why would you even do that, you big oaf?’ Nat’s angry, poking Mac in the chest, but I’m not paying attention as the pair begin to bicker; instead, I’m watching Rory’s retreating form. He slows as he approaches the salon doorway where June stands. He stops and glances at the ground before raising his head. Then he says something that causes June to smile before her hand reaches out to pat his cheek.

  ‘What was that about?’ I ask as I reach the salon door myself. My eyes flick to Rory’s back as he walks farther away, the weight of the world apparently balanced on his back.

  ‘I just gave him a wee word of advice,’ June replies, straightening her flowery head scarf.

  ‘You told him not to come back?’ What else is there to be said? But what was with the cheek patting?

  ‘I told him to take heart. That what’s comin’ fir ye, will no’ pass y’ by.’

  Great. The Scottish version of que sera, sera. I find myself shaking my head.

  ‘Say what you will, hen,’ June continues, ‘that boy has it bad, and when it comes to real love, there’s no giving up.’

  With that, she retreats into the salon, leaving me feeling like I’ve been punched in the throat.

  Chapter 28

  Ivy

  Please don’t travel down tomorrow. I’m ill.

  Fin’s text arrives late Friday afternoon, a week or so following Rory’s last visit to the village. And stupid Mac punching him. I’m sitting at reception, having finished for the afternoon, though Ted is still working on his client’s blowout.

  What’s up? Is it the flu?

  She’d mentioned earlier in the week that the office drones—her description—were dropping like flies with some kind of stomach bug.

  I think so. Throat. Nose. Vomiting.

  I’m just about to text to tell her to take care and to say I’d check in with her tomorrow when I receive this:

  I know I said I never wanted to see him again, but I said a lot of things.

  My heart sinks as I read Fin’s text, my thumbs hove
ring over the keyboard as I attempt to fashion a reply because she knows. She knows Rory’s been looking for her—maybe even found her.

  Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t cut me out of your life.

  My heart is literally pounding out of my chest, and little Vlad seems intent on reaching out to grab it. Maybe he’s mistaken the pounding as some kind of baby rave. Before I have a grip on the right verbiage—or my panic—another text arrives.

  I said a lot of things, felt a lot of things, and I understand why you were trying to protect me.

  But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. All these weeks.

  Why didn’t you say?

  I thought he’d moved on. Do you have any idea how this feels—like you’ve been replaced? Cut out, or pasted over by the shape of someone else?

  Why, no, I have no idea what that feels like. Please fill my ears with your tales of woe while I rub my poor, single parent belly and revel in how just life is.

  Of course, I don’t answer this way, but it doesn’t stop the sudden flow of fury through my bones. My thumbs hover over the screen again as I attempt to tamp down my emotions to a rolling boil. I won’t give into anger. Into jealousy and pain. Envy because it doesn’t take the brain of Britain to work out she’s seen him. Talked. Meanwhile, I—

  I push it away—the anger. The jealousy. Push it the fuck from my brain while reminding myself to add another pound to that fucking tin. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ll shove a fucking fiver in! My nose begins to tingle as tears prick at my lids. Life is so unfair, and even when I’m trying to do the right thing—get on the right path—I keep screwing things up for myself and other people.

  But I can’t help how I feel. Sad. Empty. Pissed off.

  But what about Fin, and how she must feel. Jesus Christ, I’ll get myself to mass on Sunday to ask for forgiveness for the things I keep screwing up. She deserves to be happy, and we had no right to interfere.

  I pick up my phone again and quickly jot out, Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t cut me out of your life. But then I erase it.

  This. This is what I type instead of a whiny, selfish response. I know it wasn’t the right thing to do—at least, my heart did—but my head said it was for the best. I didn’t want to see you get hurt again, and you were still coming to terms with what happened with your douche of a husband.